gaolhouse rock

"I didn't take your money when I had ALL your credit cards locked up in my dreams." -Charles Manson

Wow, who knew Mr. Manson had an inner Rimbaud? There's something hauntingly creepy about that sentence, and it's not only because it's from a serial killer to a (theoretical) ten-year-old boy. Point is, Manson and Rimbaud are both fucking NUTS. However, I'm unflaggingly curious; should I play pen-pals with a serial killer? Would he write me prose poems? Because I want prose poems, but maybe permanent solitary reclusion is a weak substitute for absinthe.

And I'm thinking of children-eaters and man-slayers when I should be--

I should be doing laundry. Four piles, consisting of wet towels, old jeans, soiled dresses & other things, lay about on my floor. They've been growing for about two point two weeks and have begun to integrate into each other. I'm out of socks (but it's springtime [but it might rain]). I can't bring myself to move, however; the exhaustion imposed by living in this dump is bereaving me of all energy. But I'm comfortable. I can't be bothered once I'm comfortable.